Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Salute! O Roya-neh!” fiercely honoring the dead bodies of the bravest men who had ever died in the Long House.

  On the following afternoon I ventured from my concealment, and was striving to dig a grave for my two comrades, using my knife to do it, when the riflemen of our advance discovered me across the river.

  A moment later I looked up, my eyes blinded by tears, as the arm of the Sagamore was flung round my shoulders, and the hands of the Grey-Feather and Tahoontowhee timidly sought mine.

  “Brother!” they said gently.

  * “Tekasenthos, O Sagamore!” I whispered, dropping my head on his broad shoulder. “Issi tye-y-ad-akeron, akwah de-ya-kon-akor-on-don!”

  [* “I weep, O Sagamore! Yonder are lying bodies, yea, and of chiefs!”]

  CHAPTER XXII

  MES ADIEUX

  For my acquaintances in and outside of the army, and for my friends and relatives, this narrative has been written; and if in these pages I have seemed to present myself, my thoughts, and behaviour as matters of undue importance, it is not done so purposely or willingly, but because I knew no better method of making from my daily journal the story of the times and of the events witnessed by me, and of which I was a small and modest part.

  It is very true that no two people, even when standing shoulder to shoulder, ever see the same episode in the same manner, or draw similar conclusions concerning any event so witnessed. Yet, except from hearsay, how is an individual to describe his times except in the light of personal experience and of the emotions of the moment so derived?

  In active events, self looms large, even in the crisis of supreme self-sacrifice. In the passive part, which even the most active among us play for the greater portion of our lives, self is merged in the detached and impersonal interest which we take in what passes before our eyes. Yet must we describe these things only as they are designed and coloured by our proper eyes, and therefore, with no greater hope of accuracy than to approximate to the general and composite truth.

  Of any intentional injustice to our enemies, their country, and their red allies, I do not hesitate to acquit myself; yet, because I have related the history of this campaign as seen through the eyes of a soldier of the United States, so I would not deny that these same and daily episodes, as seen by a British soldier, might wear forms and colours very different, and yet be as near to the truth as any observations of my own.

  Therefore, without diffidence or hesitation — because I have explained myself — and prejudiced by an unalterable belief in the cause which I have had the honour and happiness to serve, it is proper that I bring my narrative of these three months to a conclusion.

  With these same three months the days of my youth also ended. No stripling could pass through those scenes and emerge still immature. The test was too terrible; the tragedy too profound; the very setting of the tremendous scene — all its monstrous and gigantic accessories — left an impression ineradicable upon the soul. Adolescence matured to manhood in those days of iron; youthful ignorance became stern experience, sobering with its enduring leaven the serious years to come.

  I remember every separate event after the tragedy of Chenundana, where they found me dazed with grief and privation, digging with my broken hunting knife a grave for my dead companions.

  The horror of their taking off passed from my shocked brain as the exigencies of the perilous moments increased, demanding of me constant and untiring effort, and piling upon my shoulders responsibilities that left no room for morbid brooding or even for the momentary inaction of grief.

  From Tioga, Colonel Shreve sent forward to us a wagon train of provisions, even wines and delicacies for our sick and wounded; but even with this slight aid our men remained on half rations; and for all our voluntary sacrifice we could not hope now to reach Niagara and deliver the final blow to that squirming den of serpents.

  True, Amochol was dead; but Walter Butler lived. And there was now no hope of reaching him. Bag and baggage, horse, foot, and Indians, he had gone clear out of sight and sound into a vast and trackless wilderness which we might not hope to penetrate because, even on half rations, we had now scarcely enough flour left to take us back to the frontiers of civilization.

  Of our artillery we had only a light piece or two left, and the cohorn; of cattle we had scarcely any; of wagons and horses very few, having killed and eaten the more worn-out animals at Horseheads. Only the regimental wagons contained any flour; half our officers were without mounts; ammunition was failing us; and between us and our frontiers lay the ashes of the Dark Empire and hundreds of miles of a wilderness so dreary and so difficult that we often wondered whether it was possible for human endurance to undergo the endless marches of a safe return.

  But our task was ended; and when we set our faces toward home, every man in our ragged, muddy, brier-torn columns knew in his heart that the power of the Iroquois Empire was broken forever. Senecas, Cayugas, Onondagas, might still threaten and even strike like crippled snakes; but the Long House lay in ashes, and the heart of every Indian in it was burnt out.

  Swinging out our wings east and west as we set our homeward course, burning and destroying all that we had hitherto spared, purposely or by accident, we started south; and from the fifteenth of September until the thirtieth the only living human being we encountered was the aged squaw we had left at Catharines.

  Never had I seen such a desolation of utter destruction, for amid the endless ocean of trees every oasis was a blackened waste, every town but a heap of sodden ashes, every garden a mass of decay, rotting under the autumn sun.

  On the 30th of September, we marched into Tioga Fort, Colonel Shreve’s cannon thundering their welcome, and Colonel Proctor’s artillery band playing a most stirring air. But Lord! What a ragged, half-starved army it was! Though we cared nothing for that, so glad were we to see our flag flying and the batteaux lying in the river. And the music of the artillery filled me with solemn thoughts, for I thought of Lois and of Lana; and of Boyd, where he lay in his solitary grave under the frosty stars.

  On the third of October, the army was in marching order once more; Colonel Shreve blew up the Tioga military works; the invalids, women and children, and some of the regiments went by batteaux; but we marched for Wyoming, passing through it on the tenth, and arriving at Easton on the fifteenth.

  And I remember that, starved as we were, dusty, bloody with briers, and half naked, regiment after regiment halted, sent back for their wagons, combed out and tied their hair, and used the last precious cupfulls of flour to powder their polls, so that their heads, at least might make a military appearance as they marched through the stone-built town of Easton.

  And so, with sprigs of green to cock their hats, well floured hair, and scarce a pair of breeches to a company, our rascals footed it proudly into Easton town, fifes squealing, drums rattling, and all the church bells and the artillery of the place clanging and booming out a welcome to the sorriest-clad army that ever entered a town since Falstaff hesitated to lead his naked rogues through Coventry.

  Here the thanksgiving service was held; and Lord, how we did eat afterward! But for the rest or repose which any among us might have been innocent enough to suppose the army had earned, none was meted out. Nenny! For instead, marching orders awaited us, and sufficient clothing to cool our blushes; and off we marched to join His Excellency’s army in the Highlands; for what with the new Spanish alliance and the arrival of the French fleet, matters were now stewing and trouble a-brewing for Sir Henry. They told us that His Excellency required pepper for the dose, therefore had he sent for us to mix us into the red-hot draught that Sir Henry and my Lord Cornwallis must presently prepare to swallow.

  I had not had a letter or any word from Lois at Fort Tioga. At Easton there was a letter which, she wrote, might not reach me; but in it she said that they had taken lodgings in Albany near to the house of Lana Helmer; that Mr. Hake had been more than kind; that she and her dear mother awaited news of our army with tenderest anxiety, bu
t that up to the moment of writing no news was to be had, not even any rumours.

  Her letter told me little more, save that her mother and Mr. Hake had conferred concerning the estate of her late father; and that Mr. Hake was making preparations to substantiate her mother’s claim to the small property of the family in France — a house, a tiny hamlet, and some vineyards, called by the family name of Contrecoeur, which meant her mother was her father’s wedded wife.

  “Also,” she wrote, “my mother has told me that there are in the house some books and pictures and pretty joyeaux which were beloved by my father, and which he gave to her when she came to Contrecoeur, a bride. Also that her dot was still untouched, which, with her legal interest in my father’s property, would suffice to properly endow me, and still leave sufficient to maintain her.

  “So you see, Euan, that the half naked little gypsy of Poundridge camp comes not entirely shameless to her husband after all. Oh, my own soldier, hasten — hasten! Every day I hear drums in Albany streets and run out to see; every evening I sit with my mother on the stoop and watch the river redden in the sunset. Over the sandy plains of pines comes blowing the wind of the Western wilderness. I feel its breath on my cheek, faintly frosty, and wonder if the same wind had also touched your dear face ere it blew east to me.”

  Often I read this letter on the march to the Hudson; ever wondering at the history of this sweet mistress of my affections, marvelling at its mystery, its wonders, and eternally amazed at this young girl’s courage, her loyalty and chaste devotion.

  I remember one day when we were halted at a cavalry camp, not far from the Hudson, conversing with three soldiers — Van Campen, Perry, and Paul Sanborn, they being the three men who first discovered poor Boyd’s body; and then noticed me a-digging in the earth with bleeding fingers and a broken blade.

  And they knew the history of Lois, and how she had dressed her in rifle-dress, and how she had come to French Catharines. And they told me that in the cavalry camp there was talk of a young English girl, not yet sixteen, who had clipped her hair, tied it in a queue, powdered it, donned jack-boots, belt, and helmet, and come across the seas enlisted in a regiment of British Horse, with the vague idea of seeking her lover who had gone to America with his regiment.

  Further, they told me that, until taken by our men in a skirmish, her own comrades had not suspected her sex; that she was a slim, boyish, pretty thing; that His Excellency had caused inquiry to be made; and that it had been discovered that her lover was serving in Sir John’s regiment of Royal Greens.

  This was a true story, it seemed; and that very morning His Excellency had sent her North to Haldimand with a flag, offering her every courtesy and civility and recommendation within his power.

  Which pretty history left me very thoughtful, revealing as it did to me that my own heart’s mistress was not the solitary and bright exception in a sex which, like other men, I had deemed inferior in every virile and mental virtue, and only spiritually superior to my own. And I remembered the proud position of social and political equality enjoyed by the women of the Long House; and vaguely thought it was possible that in this matter the Iroquois Confederacy was even more advanced in civilization than the white nations, who regarded its inhabitants as debased and brutal savages.

  In three months I had seen an Empire crash to the ground; already in the prophetic and visionary eyes of our ragged soldiery, a mightier empire was beginning to crumble under the blasts from the blackened muzzles of our muskets. Soon kings would live only in the tales of yesterday, and the unending thunder of artillery would die away, and the clouds would break above the smoky field, revealing as our very own all we had battled for so long — the right to live our lives in freedom, self-respect, and happiness.

  And I wondered whether generations not yet born would pay to us the noble tribute which the sons of the Long House so often and reverently offered to the dead who had made for them their League of Peace — alas! now shattered for all time.

  And in my ears the deep responses seemed to sound, solemnly and low, as the uncorrupted priesthood chanted at Thendara:

  “Continue to listen,

  Thou who wert ruler,

  Ayonhwahtha!

  Continue to listen,

  Thou who wert ruler,

  Shatekariwate!

  This was the roll of you,

  You who have laboured,

  You who completed

  The Great League!

  Continue to listen,

  Thou who wert ruler,

  Sharenhaowane!

  Continue to listen,

  Thou who wert ruler—”

  And the line of their noble hymn, the “Karenna”: “I come again to greet and thank the women!”

  Lord! A great and noble civilization died when the first cancerous contact of the lesser scratched its living Eastern Gate.

  * “Hiya-thondek! Kahiaton. Kadi-kadon.”

  [* “Listen! It is written. Therefore, I speak.”]

  My commission as lieutenant in the 6th company of Morgan’s Rifles afforded me only mixed emotions, but became pleasurable when I understood that staff duty as interpreter and chief of Indian guides permitted me to attach to my person not only Mayaro, the Mohican Sagamore, but also my Oneidas, Grey-Feather and Tahoontowhee.

  Mounted service the two Oneidas abhorred, preferring to trot along on either side of me; but the Sagamore, being a Siwanois, was a horseman, and truly he presented a superb figure as the handsome General and his staff led the New York brigade into the city of Albany, our battered old drums thundering, our fifes awaking the echoes in the old Dutch city, and our pretty faded colors floating in the primrose light of early evening.

  Right and left I glanced as we rode up the hilly street; and suddenly saw Lois! And so craned my head and twisted my neck and fidgeted that the General, who was sometimes humorous, and who was perfectly acquainted with my history, said to me that I had his permission to ride standing on my head if I liked, but for the sake of military decency he preferred that I dismount at once and make my manners otherwise to my affianced wife.

  Which I lost no time in doing, not noticing that my Indians were following me, and drew bridle at the side-path and dismounted.

  But where, in the purple evening light, Lois had been standing on her stoop, now there was nobody, though the front door was open wide. So I ran across the street between the passing ranks of Gansevoort’s infantry, sprang up the steps, and entered the dusky house. Through the twilight of the polished hallway she came forward, caught me around the neck with a low cry, clung to me closer as I kissed her, holding to me in silence.

  Outside, the racketting drums of a passing regiment filled the house with crashing echoes. When the noise had died away again, and the drums of the next regiment were still distant, she loosened her arms, whispering my name, and framing my face with her slim hands.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of three tall and shadowy figures hovering in the doorway. Lois saw them, too, and stretched out one hand. One after another my three Indians came to her, bent their stately crests in silence, took her small hand, and laid it on their hearts.

  “Shall I bid them to dine with us tomorrow?” she whispered.

  “Bid them.”

  So she asked them a trifle shyly, and they thanked her gravely, turned one by one to take a silent leave of me, then went noiselessly out into the early dusk.

  “Euan, my dear mother is awaiting you in our best room.”

  “I will instantly pay my duties and — —”

  “Lana is there also.”

  “Does she know?”

  “Yes. God help her and the young thing she has taken to her heart. The news came by courier a week ago.”

  “How he died? Does she know?”

  “Oh, Euan! Yes, we all know now!... I have scarce slept since I heard, thinking of you.... When you have paid your respects to my mother and to Lana, come quietly away with me again. Lana has been weeping — what with t
he distant music of the approaching regiments, and the memory of him who will come no more — —”

  “I understand.”

  She lifted her face to mine, laying her hands upon my shoulders.

  “Dost thou truly love me, Lois?” I asked.

  * “Sat-kah-tos,” she murmured.

  [* “Thou seest.”]

  * “Se-non-wes?” I insisted.

  [* “Dost thou love?”]

  * “Ke-non-wes, O Loskiel.” Her arms tightened around my neck, “Ai-hai! Ae-saya-tyen-endon! Ae-sah-hah-i-yen-en-hon — —”

  [* “I love thee, O Loskiel... Ah, thou mightest have been destroyed! If thou hadst perished by the wayside — — “]

  “Hush, dearest — dearest maid. ‘Twixt God and Tharon, nothing can harm us now.”

  And I heard the faint murmur of her lips on mine:

  “Etho, ke-non-wes. Nothing can harm us now.”

  THE END

  ANNE’S BRIDGE

  CONTENTS

  ANNE’S BRIDGE

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  I

  At Tamarack Junction he left the train on which he had been travelling all day, and, leading his two setters, Clarence and Mike, followed the Pullman porter, who was carrying his luggage, across the main tracks to the branch line. The dogs, Clarence, a Belton, and Mike, an Irish, frisked deliriously on being delivered from the detested baggage car, but their gamboling was strictly in accordance with their individual characters: the hysteria of Clarence was not unseemly; he cavorted urbanely; but Mike’s Irish maxixe betrayed Milesian abandon, and he punctuated the performance with ear-rending barks.

  The train, which stood on the branch line, appeared to be the shabbiest train which the young man had ever beheld.

  The name of the engine was the Emma, painted under the cab window. Loving hands had stuck two sunflowers into the sockets on the pilot. What the vintage of the rusty locomotive might be he could not surmise, but the Emma looked as though she had been recently lifted out of a frog-pond and restored to traffic by a wrecking derrick. He said as much to the porter, venturing to express a hope that she might not revisit the pond while he was aboard.